Chapter 1
Feray
I watch my home gradually fade in the rearview mirror.
The familiar sights of my little slice of heaven grow smaller and more distant with each passing moment—the weathered porch where Fi and I shared countless cups of tea, the garden where herbs still grow wild and unruly, the windows that glowed warm on cold nights.
The engine hums softly, and the road stretches out before us, leading into the heart of an old-growth forest.
Towering trees surround us, their branches forming a natural canopy overhead.
Sunlight filters through the leaves, casting dappled shadows on the road.
The air fills with the earthy scent of moss and the sweet fragrance of wildflowers.
Birds sing their melodic tunes, creating a soothing symphony that accompanies our journey.
As we drive deeper into the forest, ancient trees stand like silent sentinels, their gnarled roots and massive trunks a testament to the passage of time.
The road winds through the forest, curving gently and revealing glimpses of hidden streams and clearings carpeted with ferns.
Watching the cabin fade into the distance is bittersweet.
It marks the beginning of a journey into my past—one where I have no clue where it will lead.
It's hard to say goodbye to Fi and the log cabin we've come to call home.
My chest aches with the separation, a physical pain that pulses with each mile we put between us.
When I finally pull my eyes away from watching where we've come from, I look at the puzzle before me.
The doctor and the banker—two ancient shifters that are my mates.
Easton sits beside me, his copper hair catching the light that streams through the window.
He's a phoenix, and who knows how long he's lived.
Every time he resurrects, he becomes young again.
That could be a blessing and a curse all the same.
At least, that's what the one book I had from school said.
So far, half of what the books have told us is true, the other half fiction.
Socially, the book said phoenixes are mostly loners who mate for life like wolves. There's no notation about polyamory in their society. From what I can piece together, it doesn't happen with their people. Which means I'm asking him to go against everything he's ever known.
That brings me to Diaval. He puzzles me more than Easton does.
His profile is sharp and aristocratic as he stares at the road ahead, silver-streaked dark hair swept back from a face that could have been carved from marble.
Easton at least came out and said he needs time.
Diaval, the grumpy dragon, hasn't said squat to me about what I am to him.
He gave me a coin that scares the shit out of anyone who sees it in my possession.
Khal told me he noticed Diaval had packed the mug I gave him, so it must mean something.
The book said dragons live in flights, and once upon a time, the females outnumbered the males.
Now, like with most shifters, males outnumber females.
I remain snuggled in Torben's arms, his massive frame surrounding me like a fortress of warmth.
He runs his fingers through my hair as I look at Easton in the back seat with us.
The steady thump of Torben's heart against my ear is a metronome of comfort.
Just as we emerge from the forest onto the open road, Diaval huffs.
"Easton, you better drive. Her anxiety is driving my dragon insane.
" I wince. Are my emotions are that loud?
Khal's forked tongue flicks out, tasting the air, and he nods, pulling over.
The guys switch positions with practiced ease, and suddenly Khal is sliding into the back seat.
He pulls my feet into his lap and starts to massage my arches.
His scales shimmer just beneath his human skin as he kneads and strokes, targeting various pressure points.
The sensation is a delightful mix of gentle pressure and soothing strokes—firm enough to work out the tension, soft enough to feel like worship.
The knots in my feet slowly melt away as his fingers work their magic.
Khal uses his thumbs to apply targeted pressure on specific points, and a subtle sense of relief spreads through my body. Time seems to slow down. I become acutely aware of the sensations—the warmth, the pressure, the skilled touch all combining to create comfort and tranquility.
The stress I was carrying gradually fades, replaced by something dangerously close to contentment.
"Fi will be fine. She's well-guarded, and her mates will keep her safe.
" Khal's tone is warm and inviting, soothing the rough edges of my soul.
His amber eyes hold a softness meant only for me as a gentle smile graces his lips.
The way he's looking at me, I know something is bothering him.
He suddenly pulls out his phone and glances at it.
Then I realize—he's worried too. He's separated from his twin, and who knows if that's ever happened before?
My heart clenches. I'm not the only one leaving someone behind.
"Khol is fine too, you know." I press my forehead against Torben's neck and extend a hand to Khal.
He grips it, his fingers cool against mine, and nods slowly.
My deadly basilisk is a big softie under it all.
"Heh, yeah. Just like you and Fi. Khol and I haven't really been separated from each other for long.
Maybe a day or two at most." He shrugs, and his admission about his own anxiety makes me feel better somehow.
Less alone in my fear. He releases my hand and returns to massaging my arches.
A throat clears from the front seat, and I lift my head to see who's about to speak. "A very long time ago, white wolves were very common in Briarvale. They used to migrate south into warmer climates to give birth, then head north for winter, following the big game animals they love to hunt."
Diaval's voice resonates with a deep, seductive allure that wraps itself around every word.
As he speaks, his words flow like molten silk, each syllable carrying a rich, velvety texture that sends shivers down my spine.
There's a certain confidence in his voice, his words measured and deliberate, each one chosen with care to maximize impact.
It's rare to hear him say more than a short sentence.
My wolf perks up, ears forward, attention rapt.
I sit up to pay better attention. "We used to migrate? Why would we migrate? That almost doesn't make sense. How do you know?" I slide off Torben's lap and move to the center seat, leaning forward to get closer to Diaval, drawn to him like a moth to flame. "Did you get to witness the migrations?"
Other than Easton, I don't think anyone knows Diaval's true age—only that, because of a slip of the tongue, we know he's a wyrm dragon.
An ancient among ancients when it comes to dragons.
Diaval and Easton look at each other, a silent conversation passing between them in the span of a heartbeat. Then Easton answers.
"Everything is relative. We've lived many lives over the eons.
Time is not a valid quantifier." He looks at me in the rearview mirror, and I sit back, staring into his eyes.
Flames seem to flicker in his irises for a moment—orange and gold dancing like a contained inferno—then vanish just as fast as they appeared.
"Long ago, before we settled into villages and towns, we lived as our animals more than our human forms. In a way, it was better.
Our animals don't have the hang-ups that society has placed on us when it comes to taking mates.
" Easton lets out a sigh, heavy with the weight of centuries.
He's at war with himself over the pull of the mate bond between us. I get it. He was raised to believe he would have his mate all to himself. Here I am with four mates—three more than he was expecting. The guilt gnaws at me. I didn't ask for this any more than he did.
"Let's get back on course, shall we?" Diaval saves Easton from the question on the tip of my tongue.
"The wolves segregated themselves based on build and coat color.
The timber wolves took to the dense forests and grassy plains because they would blend in better.
" He turns slightly in his seat, giving me more than just his side profile.
His dragon's slitted pupils flash for a moment before returning to human.
"The wolves whose coats are black or dark gray took over the shadow mount—or, as it's referred to now, the base of the mountains and the caverns within.
" I reach down and pull out the book on the area, looking at the map for our region.
The pages are worn, the edges soft from years of handling.
"White wolves are able to endure the cold better than any other subspecies of wolf.
They're otherwise known as arctic wolves and have far more layers to their fur than the others.
Witches used to hunt the arctic wolves for their fur, thinking that was why they could endure the cold.
" Diaval laughs—a rare, rich sound that makes my stomach flutter.
He shakes his head. "Only the pure white females would be Lunas, leaders of their kind, blessed with gifts from Gaia herself to calm and control the masses. "
He arches a brow at me, and suddenly it makes sense. Why I was able to get everyone to settle down. Why my wolf feels so powerful sometimes. I'm not just a wolf. I'm a Luna. A white wolf. Something ancient and rare. "But it didn't work on you and Easton."
"You noticed that, huh?" Diaval's deep chuckle sends a shiver of anticipation through me.
"Well, yeah. Everyone else sat down, and you two just stared at me."